three months ago,
before i came back
and turned a year
this year
over again
flipping around
to the beginning
of childlike promises,
the gift of forgetfulness.
watch the sun reach
from worlds away,
and the dance of dust
commence and die,
kidnapped
by the objects
that have lost
our affection,
always moving, changing
blues to red...
though i say not so,
so you know:
this is bullshit,
we are faking,
constructing
something we've
never understood,
coated in powdered
sugary wishes...
before i turn
the question on you,
and watch you stare on,
with confused eyes,
angry though flooded,
just contained:
you felt dimmed
since i lied, laughing
when i should have cried.
you feel used? but
you'd been there:
she only swooped
after you'd swooped.
you, still muted, remember
you began this too;
and you
want to end this, too.
it is time for you to move
for me to change
for us to kidnap
one another
in a corner,
of this room,
where only the sun speaks,
and we turn and choose
circles of dancing dust.
we had convinced
ourselves once
that sleep's dream
will be reality
with you,
eating the thoughts
of our thoughts.
we can convince
our minds again,
another once
that we had rested
in this year,
in a dream we blew
in a bubble that flew on
too high and touched the sun.
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